Starting Over


and empty handed.

The plane had barely landed,
nose first, flames burst,
into the golden sand and
shrapnel spread
like a bullet spree,
into the man
who’d sat next to me.
Now alone,
just ten survivors,
I struggle with my wife:
I can’t revive her.
The feeling I have now
is worse than the fire.
Cover, cover,
the night comes quick,
the slick black sky
is frigid and thick.
Our skin burns cold,
we shiver and bick-
er and trip over slivers
of tree roots in rivers.
Travel, and search,
an island deserted.
Our hope is more spars
than the food we had herded.
We dwindle in numbers
and soon we’re observers
to the death of eight more:
succumbing to murder.
This island’s the killer,
the jungle its knife,
we might as well give up,
just lay down our lives.
But something keeps pushing,
a burning inside,
we look at each other
like Bonnie and Clyde.
We run and we hide,
the dangers pursue but
there’s none we can’t fight.
We claim what is ours
like we’re gunning down tribes
(That’s a derogatory reference),
we’re sons of the guys
who created a nation
that hungered for freedom,
for something worth bleeding,
the sacrifice my lover made
would not be succeeded
by my failure to overcome
the challenge of breeding.

It was time to start
Adam and Eve’ing.


Prompt: Stranded


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